Stirring the Ashes
by NairobiWonders
Summary: The story is set well into season three and is a followup of sorts to my last fic, Embers. You don't need to have read Embers, but it would help a tiny bit if you had. Joan and Sherlock are back to working as partners. This one kind of got out of hand. It's very fluffy joanlock and be warned by chapter 3 it's solid joanlock. Slight spoilers with use of name of 2 new characters.
1. Chapter 1

She awoke to the sound of icy rain pelting the windows of her bedroom. Joan squinted at the clock. 4:27 a.m. Good. She didn't have to leave this sanctuary for hours yet. She pulled the soft plush blankets closer. Below her she found her spot once more on his warm hairy chest. His arms adjusted themselves around her bare back and waist and secured her to the spot. She heard his heartbeat speed up slightly as she made herself comfortable on top of him.

"You okay?" Sherlock asked drowsily.

"Mm hmm," she replied and snuggled in closer to him. She was surprised how comfortable this felt, how natural it was. "You?" she asked him.

"Very much so," came his whispered answer. His hand came out from beneath the covers and came to rest gently on the back of her head. His bare legs shifted underneath to allow her to get closer.

She smiled into his chest as warmth enveloped her. Just twelve hours ago they had been neck deep in work, the day had been like one of many lately.

"Watson, take off your boots." His eyes never left the photos spread out on the precinct's conference room table.

She stood at the head of the table scouring the same material. "Why?" she asked as she proceeded to remove her boots.

"You are 5' 3" in bare feet are you not?" Sherlock didn't wait for an answer. "Our victim was approximately my height. Look at this." He pulled out a photo of the bruise marks left on the neck and jawline of the deceased. "If you were going to strangle me, how would you go about it?" He flexed his eyebrows at her. "I'm quite sure the impulse has struck you on occasion."

She stared at him. "Many occasions..." She took a breath, "Well, I would wait until you were seated and come at you from behind. But our victim was standing in a corridor, very intoxicated but we believe standing ... so ...hmm ..." Joan dropped the photo she had in her hand and Sherlock instinctively bent over to pick it up. In an instant Watson had him in a strangle hold and on his knees, with her knee firmly planted in his back.

"Good show, Watson!" the words came out strained but full of pride.

Gregson having chosen this moment to check on his consulting detectives, shook his head at them and took it all in stride. "I know you two have not been on the best of terms lately, Joan, but killing him in a police station is not the smartest move."

"Alright Watson, you may release me." Sherlock's hand came up to her arm to encourage her loosening the grip.

"Oh," Watson let her arm fall from his neck and removed her knee from his back.

"I believe we need to bring in Ms. Simmons for questioning, Captain." Sherlock stood and stretched out his neck and shoulders. He handed the photographs they had been studying to Gregson.

Joan explained, "The bruising indicates the perpetrator was pulling up on the victim's neck. And the bruise on his back coordinates with what I just ... uhm... did to Sherlock." A faintly satisfied look flickered across her face.

"I believe, we believe, the diminutive Ms. Simmons is the killer." A look of satisfaction now crossed his face as he looked from the Captain to Watson.

For several weeks the work had been non-stop. After some initial awkwardness, occasional hostility and much unspoken renegotiation, Sherlock and Watson were once again working as partners. They re-found their rhythm and tore through cases with exuberance.

Kitty had left weeks ago. Hidden agendas and secretive games, combined with not the keenest of intellects provided ample reasons for her departure to be met with relief by both Watson and Sherlock. As for Andrew, he had exited shortly after Kitty. He declared himself tired of playing second fiddle to her work. Frankly, both Andrew and Joan had known the relationship was nearing its end since before Sherlock returned to the city. The upsurge in caseload that coincided with Sherlock's return just put the final nail in their relationship coffin.

With this last case solved, Joan and Sherlock exited the station exhausted yet exhilarated. Daylight was fading fast aided by the grey clouds that were blowing in from the east. Weaving around the tourists and the crush of people trying to get home before the storm hit, they came up side by side at the intersection.

"What say we celebrate a case well solved, Watson?" he looked expectantly at Joan, waiting for a refusal.

She turned her head away from the traffic and gave him her attention, trying to read the look on his face. After a beat she spoke, "The usual?" Joan flashed him that shy side smile of hers that made his heart skip a beat.

"I was afraid you'd forgotten..."

He produced his whistle from a crevice in his coat and hailed a taxi.

The "usual" was a visit to a small Italian restaurant near the brownstone. This was the one place where they sat in the restaurant and shared a meal rather than dragging home takeout and rushing through it. The place was a cliché - small booths, soft concertina music, red and white checkered tablecloths, candles in wax-dripped chianti bottles - but the food was magnificent.

Mama Alma met them at the door. She too was a round maternal cliché but a very kind one. "Joan! Sir Luke! Welcome back! Long time, no?"

Sherlock scrunched his face in displeasure. He had corrected the old woman several times as to the proper pronunciation of his name, even spelling it for her, but it was no use. He was of the opinion she got some perverse pleasure from purposely mangling his name. Sherlock saw the look of glee in Joan's eyes and it made his pain a tad more tolerable.

Mama Alma chitchatted with them as she led them to their booth. She was of the opinion Joan and Sherlock were married; something else they could not disabuse her of thought Sherlock.

Food ordered, they sat and talked.

"Go ahead. Do it." Joan saw him eyeing the breadsticks.

"What?"

"Do it! You won't enjoy your meal until you get it out of the way."

Sherlock feigned ignorance. "I don't have a clue as to what you are referring." As he talked, he picked up a thin breadstick and snapped it in two equal parts. With a deadpan expression, he proceeded to do the old magician's trick of inserting one in his ear and pulling the other half out the other ear, as he continued talking to her. He then quickly made the breadstick pieces do a high-kick dance back across the table and rejoin their brethren.

Joan couldn't help herself, she rewarded his behavior with a huge smile and a shake of her head. For all his intelligence, he really was a child at times.

He looked sheepishly pleased at her. Sherlock had done this on their first visit here when she had been a bit down (she had never told him why). It had extracted a giggle from Watson, and thus became a ritual on each subsequent visit.

The food arrived: manicotti, lasagna, eggplant Parmesan, a side order of Mama's meatballs - they shared all the many plates. Together Joan and Sherlock sat, ate, rehashed the case, reminisced and let go of several weeks with of stress.

When they finally stepped out of the cocoon of candlelight and soft music into the neon and fluorescent lit street, they were greeted by a stinging blast of cold wind. Joan caught the flying strands of her hair and tucked them under her hat, "Storms moving in fast."

He nodded in agreement. Heads bent, hands in pockets, side by side they picked up their pace and made their way quickly to the brownstone.

The wind pushed them in through the outer door. Sherlock closed and locked both doors as she pulled off her hat and coat and placed them on the rack. She kept her sweater on. The brownstone felt chilly.

Joan called over her shoulder at him as she headed for the kitchen, "I'll start the tea, if you'll get a fire going."

"Alright." Sherlock watched her as she walked away, content that she was staying at least for a while.

She walked into the kitchen, turned on the stove and picked up the kettle to fill. Joan realized they were slipping back into old habits but beneath the routine, the paradigm had changed. Something in the mechanism of their relationship had shifted and clicked; an equality was in place that had not been there before. She was no longer his caretaker. In the time apart, she and Sherlock grew and learned they functioned quite well on their own but as partners they were better.


	2. Chapter 2

The log in the fireplace crackled and hissed sending the scent of resin out into the barely lit library. The soft orange light of the fire fell on and around Sherlock and Watson as they sat in companionable silence. She sat in his worn leather armchair, feet tucked up under her, mug in hand and watched the flicker of the flames. He sat on the ottoman, occasionally poking at the embers, setting off a flurry of sparks, making note of the patterns they created before they turned to ash and drifted downwards.

The sound of far off thunder was followed by the light patter of rain on the window.

"The rain is beginning ..."

"Mmmm ..." He looked at her. "You know you're welcome to stay. Your bed is made up. Ms Hudson keeps your room as if you still lived here."

"I thought Kitty used ... "

"Nooo. She wasn't allowed to cross the threshold. Ever." He made a face at her. She hid a smile behind her mug.

"... I'll make you breakfast," his voice held a certain wistfulness.

"Will you serve it to me in bed?" she teased.

He widened his eyes and nodded seriously in mock sincerity, "I will even let you sleep in."

"Hmm..."

Sherlock poked at the embers and flames flared once more. He felt as if they'd both finally made their way home. The evening had been one of amiable camaraderie, but he had words he needed to say to her that might change things between them once again.

He summoned the courage and spoke softly, into the fire, his eyes never leaving the flames. "I missed you, you know ... very much."

He stole a quick look in her direction and found her staring at him. He hesitated for a second and then turned back to the fire.

"The last night, the night before I left ... the uhm ... the closeness we shared ... It sustained me, kept me moving, so I could come back ... to you."

Joan looked away into the fire and said nothing, not able to verbalize her feelings.

"Leaving was a mistake. I know that now ... But I convinced myself my staying would hurt you. I'd rather hurt myself than you ..." His voice trailed off.

His words were met by an impassive silence. Sherlock sat in discomfort, berating himself for ruining the evening, saying too much, leaving himself vulnerable, making her uncomfortable.

The poker in his hand was carefully set aside. Not knowing what else to say or do, he slowly got up and crossed to leave the room.

As he walked past her, Joan's hand took hold of his lower arm, and slid down the shirt material to meet his hand. Her fingers found his and interlaced loosely. Sherlock stood not looking at her but allowing himself to enjoy the sensation of her fingers against his.

"I was angry ... really angry with you for a long time. I felt abandoned, betrayed, uncared for ..." she took a breath. "I didn't understand, still don't really, why you left. I needed you and you weren't here ..." her voice trailed off.

"I was wrong, I shouldn't have ..." his voice was raspy, "I understand why you can't forgive me..." He looked at her, holding her hand tighter and bringing it closer to him afraid she might let go. "As I'm sure you are aware, I'm not emotionally ..." He sighed and looked away, "Please don't give up on me, on us. My intention was never to hurt you." Sherlock looked back at her, " ... I'm sorry ..."

Joan studied his face, his eyes. She knew how difficult this had been, and was, for both of them. "Maybe it did both of us some good ... the time apart. Gave us time to think. To realize what truly matters. I am stronger now ... I didn't have my crutch ..." she looked into his eyes. "I learned to walk on my own."

He stared down at her. "You are the strong one, always have been."

"For you I have ... but not for me." She looked away, fearing to admit her feelings to him. "I ... I kept the memory of that night as well ... of you, of us ..." Her lips were strained into a thin smile and her eyes locked on to his.

The look in her eyes gave him hope. His heart pounding, he leaned down and gave her the softest of kisses on her cheek, "Please, stay?" he murmured.

Her face relaxed, her tone lightened. "It is pretty nasty out there... perhaps ... just for tonight."

Sherlock was pleased; his whole demeanor changed. A charge of energy ran through him.

"Just don't wake me up before nine."

"Of course." He dutifully nodded his agreement. "I'll go light a fire to warm the room up for you, hmm?"

Joan looked at him with concern.

"It's alright. Ms. Hudson had it cleared while I was away. You have a fully functional fireplace now." He practically bounced out of the room to attend to the task.

Picking up the mugs and heading towards the kitchen, Joan caught herself thinking that having her own fireplace would be so cosy this winter. If this was part of his ploy to have her move back in permanently then it just might work.


	3. Chapter 3

A loud boom and crash from way up high rattled the brownstone. Joan heard and felt it as she deposited the mugs in the sink. The noise was quickly followed by the thud-thud-thud of hurried footsteps moving upwards.

"The bees!" she gasped and went running up the stairs. The storm was in full force. The wind whipped the cold rain into her as she stepped through the open roof top door. Sherlock saw her and called over his shoulder, "Its alright; they're alright. The hives are made to withstand ..."

She made her way over to him, already drenched, "Then what was it?"

He was pulling one of the hives toward the safety of the wall. She pushed while he pulled. "A microburst of some sort," he pointed to the tree branch flung in the corner of the roof, "Picked that up and landed here. It missed the hives."

The rain was pelting their faces and bodies with icy pins. "Get inside. I can get the next one," he shouted to be heard against the wind.

"Don't be stupid. You need help." She grabbed the next hive and waited for him to set the casters.

By the time they finished, the hives were nestled up against the wall, snug and safe from the winds and Sherlock and Joan were sopping wet.

He looked at her, hair completely wet and flat on her head, face dripping with water, her sweater hanging long and soaked around her as she shivered and he couldn't help but smile and let out a small chuckle. At that moment, Sherlock had an epiphany of sorts. He had a life partner. Someone who no matter the circumstances would stand with him and help calm the storm.

"What are you so happy about?" She too was smiling. He looked like a wet cat, his hair pasted on his head, shirt stuck to his body, the tattoos clearly visible through the now almost transparent material, water droplets dripped from his nose. She laughed to see him happy and from the pure adrenaline rush of it all.

The wind and rain, the talk and the kiss, the physical exertion and her agreeing to stay tonight all collided within him, and although he was quite sober, he felt drunk with it all. She was his partner as he was hers. He wiped the water out of his eyes and took another good look at her. "You are beautiful!" he shouted as the wind hurled rain once more at them.

She flapped her arms in her wet sweater sleeves and laughed,"Sarcasm? After I ..." He stopped her in midsentence, scooping her into his arms and hugging her tightly to him as he swayed from side to side with sheer happiness. At first she was amazed by the suddenness of the contact and then she too felt the rush of emotions, closed her eyes and held tight.

After a bit Joan pushed away from him slightly and looked up at him. The smiles faded from their faces. The rain kept falling, the rhythm of it beating on the roof around them reflecting the quickening of their hearts. It happened in an instant, the transition from friends to lovers. The line between the two had been vague for quite some time and suddenly the hug ignited into passion, lips and bodies crushed into each other, hands clutched where previously only the slightest touch had been permissible.

A flash of lightning and an almost instantaneous clap of thunder brought them to their senses. His hands protectively jumped to her face and head. "Inside," he barked.

Sherlock steered Joan towards the rooftop door. They quickly entered and shut the door tightly behind them. The passage was dimly lit. The muffled drumming of the rain was the only sound save for their breathing. A second or two passed as their eyes reconnected, followed by his body pressing her against the wall, his lips rasped across her neck on their way to secure possession of her mouth. She arched into him, her arms curling around him, pulling him even closer, succumbing to the waves of pleasure he was providing her.

He pulled back and looked into her eyes to assure himself she wanted this as much as he. Joan moved forward placing small kisses, one after the other, on his waiting lips. His hands moved over her and pulled the soggy sweater from her body while her hands worked at his shirt, lifting the wet rag away from his torso when the buttons would not give. Sherlock stopped and pulled off the shirt over his head himself. His hands caught in the sleeves, the wet material wouldn't slide off quick enough, doubly hampered by the sleeve buttons. Amused at the sight of him helplessly flailing and tugging on his sleeves, Joan helped him pull the shirt the rest of the way off. He stood bare chested before her - damp and cold and shivering - with his only thought being her. Joan wrapped herself round him to stop his shivering much as he had done for her once.

"We need towels..." she said, at the squish his soaked pants made under her hands. Water dripped and formed a small puddle at their feet.

"Bed... we need a bed ..." came his breathless response into her ear. Joan wrapped herself tighter around him.

"... a flat surface ..." he continued as he nuzzled her neck. Joan kissed and bit his neck, then chin.

"... I'm willing to try the stairs ..." he breathlessly murmured into her mouth.

She could take no more. Joan grabbed his hand and led him. They reached the second floor in record time and crossed the threshold of her bedroom. The fire he had set earlier cast light and warmth into the room.

Sherlock's fingers quickly found the bottom hem of Joan's blouse. He stared into her eyes as he pulled the wet cotton away from her chilled skin and slowly pulled it off over her head. The release from the dampened cloth sent a surge through her followed by a shiver that he quickly moved to quell. The feel of skin on skin further propelled them and all hesitancy and thought was lost. Shedding their remaining clothes, they pulled back into each other, the cold damp feel of their now free bodies quickly warmed by the adrenaline rush of a desire long-denied on the verge of fulfillment. Together they backed up to the bed. Joan pushed him over and he brought her down with him.

A whisper of endearment escaped his lips, something she thought him incapable of. Joan reciprocated, breathily, with words meant only for him, spurring Sherlock further, rolling her on her back, spreading the blankets over both of them as the rain continued its soft and steady rhythm on the window panes.

Flames flared in the the fireplace as an almost consumed log collapsed sending sparks upwards through the chimney. Glowing embers were the only witnesses to the culmination of the love and desire they'd been holding inside them for so long.

"Time to rise, Watson!" His voiced boomed. Shutters were flung open and light streamed. "Come now, Watson, we had a bargain." Joan forced one eye open to have a look around. He stood over her bed, fully dressed, suit jacket and all, bouncing with an expectant look on his face. "Your breakfast." He grandly pointed to the tray he had set on the bed by her. "And the time is 9:01."

Joan went to sit up, remembered she was not dressed, and pulled the sheets closer to her.

His tone softened. "It's alright, Watson. Nothing I've not seen before." A shy smile played on his face. She smiled at him and extended an arm from beneath the covers to bring him closer. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, and cautiously bent towards her.

Joan's fingers tentatively reached for his. "Morning."

"Morning" he whispered. Haltingly, unsure as to its propriety, he leaned in and gave her a small kiss. "We're alright, aren't we?" He stayed close, studying her face, her eyes, her lips.

"Very much so," she responded and softly gave him a kiss. He lingered for a second which she granted.

Abruptly, he stood up, "Right then. Hurry up and have your breakfast while I fill you in on our next case. The captain called while you slept."

Joan pulled the sheets around her, sat up, and brought the tray closer to her, "Okay, tell me ..."

"Triple homicide at the Broadway Guild's Home for Aged Actors," he said enjoying her surprise. "The details are quite fascinating ..."


End file.
